


Deception

by thedevilchicken



Series: Therapy [2]
Category: Batman Begins (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark, M/M, Mindfuck, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-26
Updated: 2005-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-05 17:23:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4188441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A pleasure, Mr. Grayson." He settles back into his chair and gestures to the couch in front of his desk. "Please, take a seat."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deception

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to _Therapy_ , originally posted to Livejournal on 26 July 2005.

Today, he has a new patient. 

He's known about this for four days now, since late on Monday afternoon just before he had to leave the office; there was a call that he could almost hear from where he sat at his desk and then, as he was gathering his things and readying himself to return to Arkham, his secretary knocked at the door and came into the room. She told him that he'd have a new patient, Thursday at 4pm. She told him the name and perhaps he paused for a second, not quite long enough for her to tell that he was already intrigued. On a vague level, he was already intrigued. 

So, when he hears the office door open, when he hears his secretary's voice and then the voice of a man, when the door swings open and someone steps inside, he already knows who it is. He has to admit that he's been looking forward to this for days. 

"Dick Grayson." The youth strides across the office, footfalls echoing just slightly against the hardwood floor; he extends a hand and Jonathan leans up from behind his desk to shake it firmly. 

"A pleasure, Mr. Grayson." He settles back into his chair and gestures to the couch in front of his desk. "Please, take a seat."

Dick does so, slinging one arm over the back of it as he ostensibly makes himself at home. Briefly, Jonathan is reminded of someone else, but only briefly. He's sitting differently, after all, one leg pulled up and tucked under the other against the leather cushions, his free hand resting on the thigh of his artistically ripped jeans. Soon he doesn't need to remind himself that Dick Grayson is a different entity entirely. Soon enough a picture of him has formed itself in his mind, leaving him completely unmistakable for anyone else. 

"So, Mr. Grayson," he continues. "How can I help?"

His parents, he says. His childhood. Being orphaned. Living in Wayne Manor. Social anxiety. Loneliness. Anger. 

Of course, despite everything that the youth – he supposes that nineteen, and apparently twenty at some point over the next month or so, should qualify him as a man – says to him, he knows what the real issue is here. He doesn't have to be psychic, doesn't need to be a psychologist, to see that the real reason why Dick finds himself here has nothing to do with anything quite so mundane. He knows, can see it straight away, probably knew it before he even walked into the room, that this is all about Bruce Wayne. Bruce is the only reason he's here. If it weren't for his concern and his curiosity, the moody ex-circus brat would probably be off riding dirt bikes somewhere on the Wayne estate. 

And already he seems suspicious. The kid apparently can't hide his emotions worth a damn because already, _already_ , Jonathan can see right through him. Under any ordinary circumstances he'd have absolutely no interest in him at all thanks to that total and utter transparency, but these are not exactly ordinary circumstances. This is Bruce's family finally come looking for an explanation. It's been long enough. 

Dick stretches pseudo-languidly, an attempt just as his current posture is at looking calm and relaxed, though he's actually anything but. He's telling Jonathan that since Bruce was committed he's felt lonely. He's telling him that even the Wayne family fortune can't make this right. He's telling him that nothing helps so he thinks he needs help and will he help him? 

"Of course, Mr. Grayson." Oh yes, of course he'll help. He's somewhat curious to see where this will lead, after all, when he already knows his new patient's agenda. There are places he could take it. 

"Didn't we meet when Bruce was admitted?" Dick asks, carefully not narrowing his eyes and Jonathan can see this. He can read every motion. He's had years of practice and Dick is far too young to fool him. 

He nods. "Yes, I believe we did," he says. "I'm surprised that I haven't seen your name in the guest register more often. We were directed to deal with Mr. Pennyworth on your behalf."

Dick pauses, already somewhat bewildered by Jonathan's words. He shakes his head slightly. "I don't like to see him in that state," he says, and Jonathan can believe that. He saw the way Dick reacted that day; he's seen the way that Alfred Pennyworth, who he suspects of being otherwise unflappable, reacts to Bruce each time he visits. They don't know how to treat him, no one really does. No one does except Jonathan. 

Jonathan nods again. "I understand, Mr. Grayson. I'm sure that you find it quite shocking to see Mr. Wayne in his current condition." The look on Dick's face says this is absolutely true. "But... we're not here to discuss your guardian's case. Shall we move on?"

So they do. They discuss sessions, decide that the current time is convenient, that one hour weekly will be more than sufficient and that they should set a probationary period of three weeks just to see if this is what Dick needs and, naturally, that Jonathan is capable of meeting those needs. It's a charade, of course, and Dick actually seems to relax as they talk but Jonathan doesn't trust this. He knows better. He knows why he's there, after all. 

And then they fill what's left of the hour with Jonathan's background questions. He asks about his family though he already knows the answers, asks about the Manor, steers the conversation subtly back to Bruce at every turn as if to dangle the proverbial carrot. Dick just answers his questions with straightforward honesty but doesn't exactly do so expansively, which leaves Jonathan wondering as he jots down mostly irrelevant notes on his pad. Because a question's forming in his mind, a question that he can't ask. The only question with an answer that might interest him. 

If there's something that Dick Grayson wants to know about Bruce, why doesn't he just ask? If there's something he wants to know, why the pretence? If there's something he suspects, why not go to the police? Why do this, and why now? It's been five months. He'd expected this to come before now. 

As they talk, this is what Jonathan is thinking. He can read him like a book, every little detail for him to see, except for this. Perhaps he'll be a challenge after all. 

***

It takes all of fifteen minutes the next time they meet for Jonathan to find out that he's Nightwing. Fifteen minutes, if that, and he knows Gotham's single best-kept secret. He never expected it to be this simple. 

However, he has to say he's not particularly surprised. Looking at him now, he's not really surprised at all; even in the thick jeans and long-sleeve t-shirt he's wearing Jonathan can tell that he has quite the striking physique and he's well aware, as is over half of the city, of Dick's rather colourful past with Haley's Circus. The way Nightwing hops about the city, so much like an acrobat though with a significantly higher quantity of hi-tech gadgets, he wonders how more people haven't put two and two together. Or rather he wonders why so many people, including himself before this particular moment in time, have put two and two together and somehow come up with five. 

This does, he thinks, explain a lot. It explains why Gotham's society pages see so little of Richard Grayson, heir to the Wayne family fortune. It explains the surly attitude he seems to display so often. And it explains, in a way, why Bruce has always seemed so fascinated by Nightwing. Once or twice Bruce himself has found himself accused of being the man behind the mask, though obviously the rumours have ceased since his... accident. And Jonathan now knows the reason why he's seemed so fascinated. He knows him. He probably funds him, has funded him, did fund him before this. It's almost a surprise that Nightwing never developed a sidekick, really, considering all he knows about Bruce. And it's a miracle that half the city doesn't know the true identity of their pet vigilante, considering just how easily Jonathan discovered it. 

Dick was late. Over the years Jonathan has learned not to be too surprised by his patients' behaviour, even when it seems somewhat erratic, but this was quite strange; considering Dick's apparent suspicion and desire to find out everything possible about Bruce's condition, Jonathan had expected him to be more punctual. But he came in seven minutes late, while Jonathan was reading an article about the arrest of Carmine Falcone and feeling rather smug, somewhat relieved, that his business with him was at an end. 

He looked up as Dick stepped into the office, black-eyed and trying very hard not to limp his way across the room. He didn't quite manage not to look relieved as he settled down somewhat gingerly on the couch. 

"Sorry I'm late, Doctor," he said, leaning back with a small wince. "Traffic was murder."

Jonathan raised his eyebrows, not believing this excuse for a second, and leaned forward on his desk a little. "I don't suppose you've just crashed a Murcielago, have you?" he asked, not looking even half as amused as he felt. 

Dick paused for a moment as he tried to decipher the question and then attempted a smile; it looked strained, not natural at all, probably from the pain. "Alfred drove today," he said. "And the Murcielago belongs to Bruce. _Still_ belongs to Bruce." Interesting. Jonathan made a mental note of Dick's apparent indignance, his refusal to accept that Bruce would probably never sit behind of the wheel of that Lamborghini or any other car. 

"You seem to be injured."

Dick shrugged. "It's not serious." And _that_ was evasion if ever he'd heard it. 

"If you don't mind me asking, how did you…"

"Spelunking."

Jonathan smiled a small, almost knowing smile. Spelunking; now there was a familiar response, and he doubts that Dick Grayson does any more spelunking than he does himself, unlike his guardian – Jonathan wonders what kind of a guardian Bruce actually made and decides that the height of the experience was probably teaching him to base jump. Not that Bruce spends a lot of time in the air or in caves anymore. Not that he really does much of anything anymore, outside of what he does with Jonathan. Though he does spend a lot of time in the dark. 

A few more simple questions, nothing direct... a few rather feeble attempts at evasive responses, and now Jonathan knows, _knows_ , that Dick is Nightwing. There's not a doubt in his mind, even if he's not exactly had him saying the words, but he doesn't need him to. He's sure. He's sure because he's rarely wrong and really, though he's managed to discover Dick's dark little secret in something that has to be approaching record time, he realises that Dick's responses would probably have been convincing enough for a lesser intellect. He doesn't think it's immodest to say that he's the smartest person he knows. He doesn't think it's arrogant to say that he's the smartest person that many of his acquaintances know, either. His abilities speak for themselves, and rather eloquently. 

Of course, he says nothing of his discovery to Dick. He continues his questions after he's figured it out though he doubts that anything else he says today will be even approaching as interesting as this. But he does still have a job to do. 

"Tell me about your parents," he says, pushing his glasses a little further up on his nose with the forefinger of one hand. He leans forward on the desk and fixes him in his gaze though his expression is relaxed, open, not intimidating in the least. It's something he's practiced. 

Dick hesitates. It's obvious that he doesn't want to talk about it but he realises that he can't say no because this is supposedly why he's here, so he's put himself in a difficult position. Apparently he didn't think this through before it started because it's with a poorly-concealed look of abject horror that he starts to tell the story of the night that his parents died. Not that he was actually asked about that night, and Jonathan finds his choice rather telling. 

So, he listens. He listens but he only half-listens, his expression that of perfect interest and understanding as his mind works. He remembers the story of the Graysons' death, he has copies of several newspaper articles sitting in the folder currently residing under his elbows, he has a copy of the police report courtesy of a particularly easily bought member of Gotham's finest. He knows the details, how the men responsible were found dead two months later. Looking at Dick now, he has his suspicions as to how that might have happened, and some people would be interested by that, by the prospect that Dick Grayson could be a murderer. Jonathan, on the other hand, really couldn't care less. He's not even remotely impressed by killers – he meets them every day in his profession and sometimes out of it, and he can't say that revenge killing ranks highly on his list of interesting cases. 

Besides, what he's really doing is planning the rest of his afternoon. He's sitting there feigning interest rather expertly as he thinks about the things he needs to stow in his briefcase, what he needs from his cabinets, how long it's going to take him to cross Gotham on the monorail and walk from the Narrows station down to Arkham Asylum. He has an administrative meeting scheduled for 6pm and then rounds, his regular informal chat with the duty nurses and by 7:30pm Harvey will be waiting for him. He's still enjoying Harvey – when they met, his entire internal mechanism for decision making had been focused externally on the tossing of a coin, but now... Jonathan's amusing himself by supplanting this system. He's given Harvey a six-faced dice. He can only imagine the poor man's desperation when he replaces this with eight faces, sixteen. He has a pack of cards in his desk at the asylum that he plans to give him after that, if there's time. Eventually his psyche will be so fragmented that there'll be no Harvey left at all. 

And then... then there's Bruce. He saves him for last. 

Soon, the hour's up. Jonathan smiles kindly, not touched in the least by the tears in Dick's eyes though he does take the time to offer him a tissue that he knows he'll refuse. 

"I'll see you next week," he says and Dick nods, rising awkwardly to his feet; Jonathan has a suspicion that had he not been injured, he wouldn't have succumbed so easily. It's a good thing he was, in that case. 

"Next week," he replies, and he heads for the door. He glances back just for a moment and then closes it behind him and Jonathan can tell what he's thinking, can see it plain as day because it's right there, any attempt at a defence rendered completely useless by his pain and he has to wonder why he came at all like that. It was naïve of him. And Dick's asking himself if this was really a good idea. Jonathan could tell him right now that it isn't a good idea from his point of view, that he's getting involved in something that he really hasn't the capacity to control and he might be in real trouble if only Jonathan had any real interest in him. It's lucky for him that he hasn't. Jonathan is actually disappointed by this, if he's honest. He'd been hoping for a worthy adversary. It's been a while. 

He sighs and starts to collect his things as he hears his secretary fawning over the injured Dick at her desk outside. He thinks maybe he'll break him just on principle, just for thinking he could use him for information like a common criminal. Perhaps he _is_ a criminal in the strictest sense of the word, but there's certainly nothing common about him. 

He'll just wait and see. Perhaps Dick Grayson will prove to be entertaining after all, though he has his doubts. 

***

"I think Bruce misses you."

By the next Thursday, 4pm, he's decided what he's going to do. It didn't actually take him all that long, of course – he put him out of his mind for a few days while he took care of some other business, while he gave his other clients some small measure of consideration and he worked his usual magic over at Arkham without giving him any thought at all. And then, after arriving home on Tuesday night, he finally gave Dick Grayson some thought. 

It's not that he underestimates him, he thinks, and he definitely doesn't underestimate his masked alter-ego, but he just doesn't find him of any particular interest. He's sure that Dick's a nice enough person, a good enough person in his own way, but he's not, never has been, interested in nice or good. He's not interested in Dick's traumatic childhood or his late-teen ennui and he's not even interested in Nightwing because it's not as if he can question him about that overtly and veiled allusions would only get him so far. And yes, Dick's fairly attractive – he's lean and athletic, his blue eyes somewhat reminiscent of Jonathan's own – but Jonathan can't honestly say that any of this interests him, either. Even were he looking for a boyfriend, and the idea strikes him as completely absurd, he's more than a little too young. And a little too naïve. 

Still, after what amounted to a less than fascinating stretch of pondering as he perused a couple of new journals, he came up with a strategy. He's come to the conclusion that painfully tedious as he might find him as an individual – Jonathan's starting to realise that very few people actually do strike him as even remotely interesting and that the overwhelming majority of those who do are currently residing in a maximum security psychiatric institute – he ought to give Dick a little more attention. After all, he _is_ Bruce's ward. He _is_ Nightwing. He could definitely live without his suspicion haunting him. So he'll do away with it. 

"I think Bruce misses you," he says, taking off his glasses. He folds them and places them on the desktop, taking a second before he looks up at Dick with all the effected openness that his wide eyes can afford him. Dick looks torn at this. As Jonathan suspected, he wears his emotions for everyone to see. He'll never be able to conceal them, no matter how hard he tries. And he does try. 

"That _is_ what this is about, isn't it?" He pauses, a new sympathetic look slipping effortlessly into place. "It must be difficult for you, what's happened to him."

Dick doesn't reply. He frowns a little, not quite meeting Jonathan's eyes anymore, and if he hadn't already known, that would have been confirmation of just how hard Dick is taking all of this. It's obvious. It's absolutely plain to see. Perhaps, he thinks, that's why he's left it so long to investigate. 

"You miss him too, don't you?"

And this time Dick does reply. He pauses for a moment, swallows, nods. "Yeah, I do," he says. "The big idiot's gone crazy and left me alone in that huge house with a British butler who calls me ‘Master Dick'." He chuckles, smiles vaguely, shakes his head. "What am I supposed to do?"

"I don't think there are any guidelines for this." He flashes him a small, wry, almost sad smile. Something else he's practiced. "I think you just have to muddle through."

"That's your professional opinion?"

He nods. "Yes, it is."

Dick smiles. "Alfred said that exact same thing."

"He sounds like a wise man."

A sigh. "He is. Wisest man I know." Jonathan has to bite down on the urge to mention that the wisest man he knows is actually sitting right in front of him. Instead he concentrates on his friendly, open look, something totally unnatural to him but still somehow terribly convincing. "You really think he misses me?"

"Yes, I do." He pauses, the time before he speaks again carefully measured as he glances down at his desk, almost as if he's considering his next words though they're already chosen. "I don't know exactly how much Alfred has told you about Bruce's condition but sometimes, _sometimes_ , he's quite lucid. Sometimes he speaks about you, both of you." It's not an outright lie that he's telling, just a slight exaggeration. After all, Bruce does talk. He does have his lucid times but in the months he's been there, Jonathan can't say that he's mentioned the two of them more than three or four times at the most. His memory's not quite what it was. Neither is he. "He misses you." He doesn't feel even the faintest twinge of guilt. 

And that's Dick cracked. In the end it was remarkably simple, just a hint of sympathy, a friendly face and unashamed misuse of the one thing he obviously cares about against him. It's almost too simple and honestly, he feels cheated. There was really no challenge in it, just a convincing piece of acting and a line he conjured up while reading about a singularly uninteresting new development in antidepressants. It's simple: really, Dick just wants a friend. His only real one seems to be a city girl called Barbara who's gone away to college. 

"You don't need to see me anymore," he says with that same kind smile, as the session draws to a close. It's their third, the end of their trial period, and Dick nods his agreement. Apparently he's decided that Dr. Crane is far from the stereotypical sinister professor and he's definitely not discovering anything new or sensational about his guardian's condition. He's not likely to, considering just how well Jonathan has covered his tracks. There's nothing to find.

"No, I guess I don't." He smiles faintly and rises, with considerably more ease than he had the previous week though Jonathan would be willing to bet that he still aches. "Thanks."

They shake hands. Jonathan stands and they shake hands over his desk; Dick holds his gaze a second longer than absolutely necessary and that's okay because as far as Dick knows, this is goodbye. Goodbye after he's just made what's almost a personal connection but for the subtle manipulation and of course this isn't something of which Dick's actually aware. And then he turns and he walks away, lets himself out of the room. Jonathan watches him go and then he sits back down. He tears off today's page of notes from his pad, adds it to the file on his desk and then closes it, slips it into his desk drawer. He'll have Audrey file it later. Officially, this is the end of their association. 

Jonathan thinks back over the session; all in all it went quite well, he thinks. It was everything a good session should be – getting everything he wants and giving nothing in return. 

And this won't be their last meeting. 

***

Wayne Manor is an interesting place. Jonathan can't think that he's ever been anywhere quite this impressive in quite this way before and he allows himself to look impressed. It seems fitting. After all, as he shows him around, even Dick can't quite manage to seem blasé about it. It's amusing - he _has_ lived there in that big chilly, lonely house for over two years, but it's as if he still can't believe that this is his home. Jonathan would have no such difficulty. 

They move through the hallways and Jonathan's reminded of every mansion house he's ever seen in every movie, though it's much grander than he expected and he expected grandeur. He's still trying to fathom how on earth three people, were Bruce still there, could ever possibly need so many bedrooms or bathrooms or sitting rooms and why there seem to be three dining rooms and he's trying to keep an eye on Dick at the same time. He knows he's not here to see the sights. As usual, he has an agenda; Dick, fragile though he's currently making a limited success of holding himself together, hasn't got a clue. At this point, in this state, Jonathan doubts that he's overly aware of anything at all. 

He left it three days after their last session and then called him the following Monday. Today. 

It was a brief phone call and he actually got hold of Alfred first, trusty butler of the Wayne household, before Dick came to the phone; Alfred does indeed sound very British and very proper and Jonathan finds this faintly interesting in a way, like it's a missing piece in the puzzle of Bruce that he's still putting together. He'd spoken to him before that, of course, but never in that particular capacity; he's always spoken to him as Bruce's legal guardian and not as the family butler. It's fascinating how function dictates the register of his dialogue in a way, but this was far from the point of his call. 

Eventually, Dick came to the phone. He sounded tired as he picked up and Jonathan thought he might be able to hazard a guess as to why, considering the day's headlines. Then he introduced himself as Jonathan Crane, deliberately dropping his title, and waited for the response. 

They talked. It was a brief call but it definitely served its purpose as soon enough he'd persuaded Dick into agreeing to visit Bruce. For the first time in five months. For the first time since his admission. They set a time and Jonathan agreed to pick him up; Dick actually sounded relieved that he wouldn't have to go there alone. And then, after a moment of silence that wasn't quite awkward, they hung up. 

Jonathan arrived early. He did intend to arrive early, pulling his BMW into the long driveway, past the rather impressive gatehouse and past a fairly extensive portion of the grounds, up to the house. He parked his car and rang the doorbell; as predicted, Alfred was the one to answer. He showed him into a sitting room just off the entrance hall, asked if he'd care for a drink while he waited and told him that Master Dick would be with him shortly before he retired from the room, closing the double doors behind him. 

He didn't have long to wait. He stood in front of the fireplace, smoothing down the jacket of his suit over his waist as he waited, glancing at the painting over the mantel that's probably by someone whose name or style he should know and probably cost thousands or more, but he's far from being an art critic. His own home, his apartment in uptown Gotham, is stark and obviously tiny in comparison to this place, which is only to be expected. He felt no jealousy as he cast his gaze over the painting again, the colours bright even in the dull afternoon light that filtered into the room through the long, high windows. He has almost everything he wants in life. Almost. He has no reason to feel jealous. 

The doors opened after a few minutes and Dick burst in; Jonathan turned and smiled and Dick smiled back, warmly if not quite relaxed. Jonathan understood his tension. They left together. 

Idle chit-chat followed, over the background of some radio station that Dick tuned to that was playing classic rock. Dick fidgeted incessantly in the passenger seat and since Jonathan was driving quite well, if most likely a little slowly for Dick's taste, he surmised that it was probably something related to what they were about to do. He knew Dick had no real desire to pay Bruce a visit and he was probably asking himself why he'd let himself be talked into it, getting more and more anxious the closer they came to Arkham. Jonathan, on the other hand, knew why. He'd softened him to the idea four days earlier and given him time to think, and now was the time to put the plan into action. 

It was raining when they arrived. Jonathan parked in his designated spot, which he actually uses very rarely thanks to Gotham City's appalling traffic and run-down but effective public transport, and they hurried inside to be greeted by the usual surly security guard. He smiled a rather awful, obsequious smile as Jonathan clipped on his ID badge and fairly soon Dick was signed in though looking fairly green around the gills. Jonathan has an idea that Dick isn't exactly at home around hospitals, especially those of this particular genre. Jonathan, though, feels perfectly at home, and perhaps that has something to do with the reason he accepted this post in the first place. About that particular fact he's uncharacteristically unsure. 

They made their way down the brightly-lit corridors, found the elevator and stepped inside. Jonathan pressed the button for the correct floor and flashed Dick a reassuring smile that seemed to help somewhat as the car moved up, climbing between floors until it stopped with a familiar shuddering jolt – familiar to Jonathan, though it seemed to unsettle Dick again, even further. Then they stepped out, and Jonathan led a mostly reluctant Dick down the corridor, past the doors into the ward, past the nurses' station and down toward Bruce's room. 

Arkham was originally envisioned as the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane. Evidently Bruce is far from _criminally_ insane but over the years the asylum has evolved and expanded to include a number of lower security wards for psychiatric patients who still pose some level of risk to either themselves or others. This is where Bruce resides, far from the cells of Harvey Dent and Jarvis Tetch, their current celebrity inmates. Jonathan felt oddly as if he'd like to point out to Dick, who was looking increasingly more anxious by the second, that at least they weren't in the wing where the patients might attempt to kill him and eat his skin, but he decided against it. And soon enough, they came to Bruce's room. 

Jonathan opened the door. They stepped inside. 

"Bruce."

He didn't look up. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, bare feet flat on the floor, hugging himself tightly. He didn't look up as Dick spoke. 

They stood still for a moment, a long moment, just watching him as he sat there. He wasn't really moving at all, just sitting there with his eyes wide and his arms wrapped around himself. The only discernible movement he made was the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed and his slow, sporadic blinking. 

"Bruce," Dick said again, frowning slightly. And he stepped forward as Jonathan hung back. He moved closer and Jonathan didn't stop him though he knew what would happen and he did, does, feel some remorse for that. He knew what would happen to Bruce but he let Dick move closer to him anyway. It was a means to an end, he told himself, forcibly dispassionate about the scene before him as Dick reached out. And he touched him. 

Bruce's movement was fast as a bullet, twisting, jumping, pushing himself back against the wall as he pulled his knees to his chest. He looked terrified. That's what a concentrated dose of his toxin will do, apparently. That's why he does it so rarely. He looked at him, wondering just how fast Bruce's heart was beating. _Too_ fast, at a guess. 

Dick backed away, closed his eyes, sighed. "He's scared of me," he said. 

Jonathan nodded, set one hand on Dick's shoulder as he looked across the room at Bruce who'd buried his face in his arms. He doesn't like the light. 

"He's scared of everything, Dick." And he was perfectly aware that this is the first time he's used his first name, the diminutive. He did it deliberately, of course. 

They didn't stay much longer after that. There wasn't much of a point because Bruce just wouldn't respond to Dick and Dick was getting lower and lower... so, they left, Jonathan knowing then that _this_ was why it had taken Dick so long to investigate. They got back into Jonathan's car as he tried to explain that some days Bruce is better than others, and that's perfectly true. This wasn't one of Bruce's good days. What he doesn't tell him is that he didn't expect it to be. 

Now here they are, back at the Manor. 

They drove back in silence, Dick's head resting against the window. Jonathan didn't bother to talk then because he hadn't planned to do so. They pulled into the driveway, up to the house; there was a pause as they sat there, in front of the house, rain drumming against the roof. He waited patiently, then in the end Dick turned to him and asked him to come inside. And now he's ushering him through the house, close to manic, his hair still wet with rain. 

"Stop."

Dick stops in the middle of a jumbled sentence about the tapestry that they're standing by and how he almost set it on fire one night soon after he'd moved in. He looks startled and probably couldn't pick up the thread of his babble again if his life depended on it. 

"Just stop talking." He steps forward and Dick steps back, right up against the tapestry that almost finished its long life as ashes one night. Jonathan smiles, just the slightest quirk of his lips. "Don't talk," he murmurs as he brings his fingers to Dick's lips. Dick doesn't say a word. 

He kisses him slowly, pressing himself up against him in ways that Dick's probably never experienced. He doesn't push him away just like he knew he wouldn't and he pauses just like he knew he would, just for a moment before his lips part and that's it, they're kissing, Dick's pulling him closer by his lapels, hands going lower, and he's crushing their mouths together, so desperate and intense in that moment that Jonathan could almost laugh out loud. He might, if Dick weren't raking at his lip with his teeth, clutching at the back of his jacket almost tight enough to tear. 

"Where's your bedroom?" he gasps as he pulls back, breathless. 

Dick just looks at him for a second, blue eyes dark, assessing. Then he lowers his lashes and slips out from between Jonathan and the wall, face flushed. And he says, "Follow me."

It's not far. It's down the corridor and round the corner and then Dick's pulling him into the room that seems almost too tidy for him. He doesn't look around so much as he sees it in glances between quick kisses, a snatch of a dresser littered with books, a table and chair with a pair of jeans and a couple of t-shirts strewn over them but that's it for the mess. It's almost as if there's nothing of him in the room, not even in the décor that says this could be any room, a guest room, though it's clearly Dick's as it smells faintly of oil and new bike leathers that he suspects are around there somewhere though he's not about to pull back just to look for them. He has Dick right where he wants him. He won't jeopardise that now. 

He steps back. He pulls back and steps away and Dick just stares at him with a perfect look of confusion. But Jonathan smiles vaguely. All he's doing is taking off his jacket, folding it and tossing it over a nearby chair, he's not going anywhere. Dick looks relieved and he looks fascinated, watching as Jonathan loosens his tie and pulls it off over his head, tosses it after his jacket. His sweater-vest follows and then he tilts his head slightly, looking Dick up and down with obvious intent. 

"Your turn," he says and he doesn't have to say it twice because Dick strips off his jacket without another word. His t-shirt follows, dropped to the floor at his feet and he stands there bare-chested and flushed and expectant just as Jonathan imagined. He steps closer and touches; his arms feel as he expected, his chest does, his back. He's warm but he shivers under Jonathan's hands and for a second he looks so young, _so_ young, but it's absurd. He's almost twenty years old. That's just his vulnerability showing. He's vulnerable and it's just perfect. 

He pushes him onto the bed. It's just a few steps behind him and he crumbles down onto it as his calves touch the edge of the mattress. There's a moment when they both toe off their shoes and then they're together again, Dick's hands raking at Jonathan's still clothed back as he's pushed down, repositioned so his head's resting on the pillows. And Jonathan kisses him again, slowly, allowing him no desperation, no speed. He doesn't seem to mind. And from the way he shifts beneath him, Jonathan can tell what it is he wants next. 

He sits up. To be more accurate he kneels up, between Dick's parted thighs, and he deals with his shirt. He makes quick work of it, a little perturbed when one cufflink goes astray, but he has more important things to occupy him. Like the way Dick's shifting beneath him, looking up at him with those big blue eyes as he waits. He waits patiently, to his credit, as Jonathan just watches him for a moment and licks at his lip... then he lets his hands trail down over Dick's bare chest. He plucks at one nipple with his fingers and Dick has to stifle a moan, biting down a little roughly on the back of his hand. Jonathan chuckles. He'll admit that he hadn't expected him to be _this_ responsive. 

His hand strays lower. It's slow but not _too_ slow as he pulls down the zipper of Dick's jeans; it's slow and maybe it _is_ too slow as he shifts and drags them down, shaking his head with a small, amused smile on his face as he realises Dick's wearing no underwear. He's naked now, every inch of his skin bare as he lies there and Jonathan moves back between his thighs, takes a long look. He's really quite something, all long limbs and smooth, pale skin, cock flushed and erect between his hard thighs. He can see why he's so popular with the society pages, when he's actually spotted out of doors. Some people would like this sort of thing. He's somewhat indifferent himself but that doesn't keep him from bending, back arching as he leans down to press his lips to the inside of one thigh. It doesn't keep him from licking a long, slow line up the length of Dick's cock, one hand following after in a slow stroke, and it doesn't keep him from chuckling lowly as Dick gasps. 

He pulls away for a moment, just long enough to dispense with the remainder of his own clothing, tossing it over the side of the bed in a small and calculated rebellion against his own character. Then he's over him again and Dick parts his thighs further, shifts up against him, and from the way he purposefully, intentionally brushes his cock against Jonathan's, presses it to his belly, it's completely clear what he wants. Jonathan will be only too happy to oblige. 

"Do you have…?"

Dick nods. "Yeah." His voice is rough, ragged. "Top drawer." And it doesn't take much to find the items in question, just a few seconds leaning to his left over the side of the double bed while Dick lies there and watches as if he's not sure what else to do. 

He leans back. He pops open the cap of the lubricant and quirks a brow at the oddly fruity smell, something like pineapple. Dick shrugs and smiles a small, embarrassed smile as if somehow flavoured lube could be more compromising even than this position he's in and perhaps in a way it is but this isn't a place where they dwell for long. Jonathan spreads the cool substance over his long fingers, screwing up his nose slightly at the smell but not actually saying a word about it and without saying a single word about _that_ , either, Dick shifts positions and pulls up one knee, hitches the other so his foot's flat on the bed and Jonathan raises his eyebrows. He's not bashful in the least, is seems. Either that or he's too far gone to care that he's completely exposed to Jonathan's cool gaze and Jonathan's cool fingers. So he gives him what he wants. 

His fingers brush lightly against Dick's opening, trace the circle of muscle just for a moment before dipping inside just a little. Dick practically writhes, mutters something that's too low for him to make out but that's probably a curse. He takes this as a good sign and presses them in further, parting, stretching, Dick's body so willing that it's almost surprising. Almost. He's just remarkably flexible. He guesses that's going to be interesting. 

The preparation doesn't last much longer than that and that's as much Dick's decision as it is his because he mutters again as he looks at him and reaches down to steady his hand. His look says he's done, he's finished, that's all he needs or all he wants or both and so he stops. He withdraws his fingers. He moves on. 

He tears open the condom and slips it on quickly, glancing up as he does so to make sure that he's watching and he definitely, _definitely_ is. Then he slicks himself thickly in the sickly scented lube that's now amusing him terribly though he can't say that Dick looks all that amused. Especially not as Jonathan leans forward, leans down, and slips himself into position, presses up against him. And he looks down as Dick looks up and he presses down, biting at his lip, pushing inside him. 

Dick gasps. His head drops back, tilts back, his throat suddenly exposed and Jonathan sinks down further, bringing his mouth closer to his collarbone and that stretch of throat. He sinks down, slowly, fingers grasping at the sheets below him, harder, because he's insanely tight and tighter in the instant that Dick's legs close around his waist, pulling him in abruptly. He can't keep from gasping because that was unexpected but doesn't exactly matter. He still knows what he's doing. Nothing changes. 

Slowly. He fucks him slowly, torturously so but that's fine because he has all the self-control he needs for it. He doubts that Dick has, however; he feels him grasping harder at his forearms just to keep from writhing or bucking or whatever movement he wants to make, though he does fail somewhat because he's tilting his hips to meet Jonathan's long, slow thrusts, squeezing around him. He could almost laugh, he looks so wanton, so forlorn, and it's clear that he wants him to move faster, harder... and he will. In the end. When he's finished with this, something that could almost be tender if it lacked his particular premeditation. Even if that's what Dick will mistake this for. He's supposed to. God, that's cruel... but it's _supposed_ to be cruel. 

Faster. Faster and a little harder now because the muscles in his forearms as he leans down are starting to ache and he suspects that the acrobat in Dick will probably crush several vertebrae if he doesn't. So he moves faster and he'll admit that it feels good, he'll admit that the pressure and the tension inside him's almost exciting but on some level, even as he's moving inside him, he's still preoccupied by the thought of that stray cufflink. It's one of Bruce's. It's an unfortunate distraction. 

Dick starts to jerk himself roughly and comes soon after, panting hard. Jonathan gives up on his lost cufflink for the time being and with two, three more thrusts inside him, he comes too. Dick's legs slip from his waist and they pause, Dick looking up at him with wide eyes and damp hair. Then he pulls him in for a kiss. 

They're breathless as they pull back. Then, after a long moment as they each try to catch their breath, Jonathan pulls out. He does it carefully, depositing the condom in the waste paper basket before he turns back to Dick. Who smiles, sated, comforted. _Comforted_. This is Jonathan's intention completely. It's all been about comfort, the whole afternoon, from start to end - comfort and the trust that comes with it. 

He'll stay a while longer. He pulls up the sheets and covers them both, lets Dick shift closer and steal another kiss with his arm draped over his chest. He'll stay a while longer and Dick will understand when he leaves. He'll still feel comforted. He'll still feel trust. He'll feel it right to the end, exactly as he wants him to. 

He'll stay a while longer, but later there's somewhere he has to be. 

***

It's almost time now. 

He's seen Dick twice in the past week and he guesses it would have been more if he weren't so busy now. He was in court on Monday and Wednesday and that then interfered with his regular appointments so they had to be rescheduled; he ended up working all day from 8am to 9pm on Tuesday and Thursday to make up for it. Not that he exactly minds because his profession and his current employment are definitely his own choice and it's usual for him to work late anyway, though usually more by choice again than from necessity. At Arkham, he actually enjoys his work. 

Court was an annoyance, however. Falcone may be locked away safely in Arkham's secure wing but for some obscure reason Jonathan's still being called as a witness in cases against his goons. They're none of them insane, just harbouring tendencies toward the violent, and he's refusing to say otherwise. Apparently this pleases the DA and even Bruce's suspicious friend Rachel has seen fit to take her allegations elsewhere. 

So, with all the excitement – with court and his work and his _work_ and all the final preparations for what's to come – Jonathan really hasn't had much in the way of free time. He's made time, however, to see Dick again, just twice, just enough. So he's seen him twice in the past week now; he's had calls to his cellphone in the meantime – he gave him the number – and he's seen him twice, both times at the Manor. He went over the first time and managed to sit placidly through what in the end amounted to over an hour of chatter about motorbikes and racing motorbikes and restoring motorbikes, nodding and hmming in the appropriate places as he massaged Dick's tight shoulders. The second time they had dinner and Jonathan played ignorant when Dick beat a hasty retreat in the middle of dessert following a rather cryptic message from Alfred. He'd suspected that the butler had something to do with it. Dick apologised profusely and made a swift exit; Jonathan drove home feeling rather pleased with himself. It had all gone just as he'd planned. 

However, he's not with Dick now, playing the happy boyfriend in the chilly Manor. He's somewhere else entirely. 

Bruce Wayne's visitor log doesn't make exactly thrilling reading – Alfred Pennyworth appears twice weekly, Rachel Dawes twice a month, and Richard Grayson... twice. It's quite sad in a way, he thinks, that Dick's managed to make so few visits and one of them under coercion; even Lex Luthor's managed to be there more times, albeit only to a total of three. And he knows that were he required to sign in himself, his name would appear more frequently than all the rest. He sees Bruce every day. 

It's not terribly late, maybe 9:30; he's just come back to Arkham from his apartment where he dropped off his car and then came back on the monorail. It's dark out and Arkham is in the Narrows but he's never exactly scared by the situation; he carries a switchblade in one pocket and gas in the other and he's almost sure that somewhere among the tall buildings he had an armed escort. He walked down the streets from the station in total peace, and entered the building. 

Now, he's signed in. He's standing by the elevator in his white doctors' coat, toying with his ID badge in the stark white light and then he's walking down to the doors to the ward, having security buzz him in. He smiles almost good-naturedly as the two men there greet him and he nods curtly; they know what that means. A flick of a switch and the cameras go off all down the corridor. He walks on. 

The nurses greet him as he passes their station and then they return to a game of Scrabble that they've borrowed from the patients' lounge. It's not a problem since all the patients are currently in their rooms, and Jonathan turns the corner at the end of the corridor. Bruce has the last room. He assigned it to him himself, five months ago. He'd been keeping it ready. 

He opens the door. 

It's dark inside but Jonathan doesn't need to see to know that Bruce is there. He'll be sitting there at the head of the bed, right up against the wall, back pressed to it to keep himself out of the light that streams in through the open door, as usual. He prefers the dark. 

"It's me, Bruce," he says, standing in the doorway, standing in the light so Bruce can see it _is_ him. "It's just me." And then he closes the door, locks it behind him, leaves the key in the lock. He moves forward in the almost pitch black, knowing exactly the number of steps he needs to take on this path to take him to the foot of the bed. He drops his coat to the floor, ID badge and all, and his jacket follows. He toes off his shoes and he sits on the edge of the bed. 

"It's me, Bruce," he says again, in the dark, as his eyes start to adjust. He can feel the mattress shift just slightly as Bruce moves and then he moves himself, reaching out a hand as he turns and moves up the bed. The springs creak lightly and his hand meets Bruce's shoulder. 

"Jonathan," he says, and Jonathan smiles. 

He nods. "It's me." He slips a little closer. "I'm here." 

He slips his arms around him but they both know why – he's unbuckling the straps of the straitjacket, the one that the nurses have to put on him before they can give him his nightly medication. They leave it for Jonathan to remove, as he does every night. He eases it over Bruce's shoulders, over his arms and tosses it to the floor by the door where it lands with a jangle. Then he sits back. They look at each other as they sit there. He lets Bruce make the first move, always. 

And the first move is always the same: Bruce reaches out and takes off Jonathan's glasses. He folds them carefully and leans over to set them down on the cabinet by the bed, and then he sits back again, back against the wall. And again, they look at each other. Bruce pulls him into his arms.

They kiss slowly. Jonathan lets his hands slip into Bruce's hair – it's grown out a little, it's nowhere near as neat as it once was, longer but it suits him. And it's not the only thing that's changed because Bruce is getting smaller. He's still fairly large, of course, but he's been getting smaller; it's the lack of exercise that's doing it because Jonathan _has_ got him eating again so he's probably just missing his spelunking. They'll deal with that soon enough. Jonathan will sort it out. 

So they kiss. Jonathan licks lightly at Bruce's lips and the kiss deepens, Bruce's arms slipping around Jonathan's waist and pulling him closer until he's all but sitting on his lap, and Jonathan lets him do it. He pulls back, takes a breath; Bruce plays idly with his hair, pushing it back, letting his thumb trace the line of Jonathan's cheekbone over and over. Bruce smiles, leans in for another quick kiss, and then he sighs, takes a long, deep breath. Jonathan's hand's at his shoulder, fingers against his neck and he can feel his pulse racing. There's medication he can give him to make him more lucid, less scared, but Bruce's heart is always so fast these days. He's not sure long much longer he can take it. He brings their foreheads down to rest together. More than once he's wondered if the effects of the gas can be reversed, lessen the strain. But he's not sure they can be now, at least not pharmacologically. 

He can feel Bruce's breath, his quick pulse, his arm holding him close. He pauses and they kiss again, not quite as slowly, hard enough that he knows his mouth will still be red when he leaves though he's not leaving yet. He'll stay a while longer and maybe all they'll do is this, or maybe Bruce will want more, but there's only a couple of hours before the drug wears off. He can't give it more than once a day or he'll do more harm than good and it's usually at night because Bruce seems to like the night, for whatever reason. Sometimes it works so well that he can get him out of the room and they'll go to the lounge or down to the courtyard, sit on the bench in the garden and Bruce will talk, really _talk_ , as he plays with Jonathan's hair and Jonathan lets him. But really, Bruce's whole world has been pared away to leave him with this one white room. It's only Jonathan who can give him more. 

"I don't want to be here anymore," Bruce says, lips moving just slightly against Jonathan's temple, and Jonathan nods. He knows. He's shown him there's more than this room. He's been putting him back together piece by piece, night by night. 

"It won't be much longer," he says, and he means it. Bruce smiles. He almost looks like himself again. It's just a pity it won't last until morning. 

And as Bruce plays with the buttons of Jonathan's shirt, Jonathan's eyes are on the window. Whatever happens now, he knows they're being watched tonight. That's just the way it has to be. 

***

He's leaving Gotham today. The countdown's already started. 

It won't necessarily be easy, of course, and there are still one or two loose ends that he has to tie up or cut off but he's leaving Gotham today and he won't be stopped. All the arrangements are made because he's been planning this for months now, maybe a year. The plans have changed only in their minor details, most notably since Bruce Wayne first strolled into his office; they remain the same in essence and they still seem almost perfect. Nothing will spoil this for him now. He's waited too long for that. By the end of the night he'll have left Gotham City behind. He won't look back. 

It's taken him months to get to this point. It's taken years of research and then months of all the other things that he likes much less than that, such as dealing with Carmine Falcone. Perhaps that's been the most irritating thing about it, that man and his perverse sense of superiority. He was almost glad when he was arrested and he's still amused by the thought of him languishing there in the high security wing at Arkham. And yes, perhaps his arrest did cause him some minor problems, but his plans haven't changed. Everything's in motion. His task's complete. Now all he has to do is leave. 

But he can't go too early. He has to wait. So he settles down on the couch in his apartment, switches on his CD player with a well-aimed click of a remote and picks up the book he's been reading. It's somewhat dry, he thinks, but it's enough to distract him from the wait. And it's one of the things that he'll be leaving behind. The thought is almost saddening in a way – he's not overly keen on possessing things just for the sake of possessing them, as his rather stark apartment confirms, but he'd like to keep hold of the things that he has. Still, he knows this is a necessary evil. After all, everything he has there can be replaced. 

He reads for a while, not exactly thrilled by the book, and then sets it down on the coffee table, slipping in a bookmark to keep the page he's never going to finish reading. He picks up his coat and pulls it on, makes sure he has everything he needs right there in his pockets before he leaves, takes the stairs down to the entrance and lets himself out onto the street. The station isn't far away and he walks quickly, mostly to keep out the chill of the wind; he takes the monorail, has to change at Wayne Tower to get to the Narrows but it doesn't take long, never does. And Arkham's just a couple of streets away from there. He signs in, clips on his ID and no one finds it strange that he's there so late because he's made sure they don't, signing in at all sorts of times to finish admin work or check up on a patient. Nothing about it seems strange. He's the only one there who knows it is. 

It doesn't take him long to reach the ward. Security lets him through and he nods cordially to the duty nurses, walking on by, and they think it's to pay his nightly visit to Bruce Wayne. He does, of course, but before he does that he stops by the store room, pulls out the bag he stowed there a couple of nights before, just for this, to be ready for this. Then he opens the door to Bruce's room. 

He turns on the light and Bruce looks at him from the bed as if Jonathan's the one who's lost his mind. 

"Jonathan?"

He smiles calmly, warmly. "We're leaving, Bruce," he says. "I want you to get dressed." He places the bag on the bed, pulls out the clothes they took from him when he was first admitted; Bruce reaches over and runs his hand over the sleeve of his shirt, frowning up at him almost like he remembers it. 

"Leaving?"

Jonathan nods. "It's time to go."

"Where?"

"Do you trust me, Bruce?"

He doesn't need to say anything else. Bruce gets up off the bed and peels off his top, starts pulling on his clothes and Jonathan watches idly from across the room. It's so easy to see that he's lost weight now he's putting on his old clothes, making a bit of a mess of the tie but otherwise managing to make himself presentable. Jonathan smiles and steps over, reties the tie for him, smoothing it down over his chest. A pause, then he steps back.

"Time to go," he says. And they leave the room. 

It's taken five months to get to the point where this moves seamlessly, where Bruce doesn't break down into a panic attack as they walk toward the stairs. They time it perfectly, Jonathan letting them into the stairwell with his keys as the nurses change shifts by the back of the office and don't see them pass. He leads Bruce by the elbow, down all those stairs to the ground floor and into the middle courtyard, through a door at the other side, into the offices where it's silent and dark and he has to pull a flashlight from his jacket so they can see their way past the desks and cabinets. He lets them out of the back exit, into the dimly lit parking lot, and it's there that it happens. 

Nightwing drops down from the roof of the building; he lands just metres in front of them and Jonathan frowns; apparently Nightwing takes this as a look of ‘damn you, Nightwing, for thou hast thwarted mine plans!' but he's more concerned about the way that Bruce's pulse has just shot up alarmingly, how he can feel it in his wrist under his hand. He squeezes his arm, moves a little closer, and Jonathan's presence does seem to calm him a little. It's not surprising. 

"Hello, Dick," Jonathan says then, giving him an amiable smile. 

Dick flinches visibly. "You…?"

He nods. "Of course I know. That should have been obvious."

"But…"

Jonathan chuckles, which is apparently the correct choice because it effects an immediate change in Dick – the stunned look's gone from his face in a second and his expression hardens. He clenches his fists. He actually glares. And Jonathan just smiles back calmly. 

"This…"

"Yes, I know: this changes nothing." Oh, and Dick does _not_ like that. Apparently Jonathan's amusement doesn't sit well with him at all, considering the thunderous look on his face. 

"Look," he says, "I saw you with Bruce." He seems to be ignoring the fact that Bruce is actually with him. 

Jonathan shrugs languidly though his grip on Bruce's arm tightens a little protectively. "And?"

"I saw what you _did_ with Bruce."

"I know."

"You…?"

"I _know_." He sighs, suddenly reminded of just how young Dick is, how inexperienced, how trusting. "And it was good of you to drop by. You're a nice person, Dick, but... you're just not all that interesting."

It's matter-of-fact, it's straightforward, it needs no further explanation and he doesn't think he actually has time to explain it even if required. But there's no need because Dick looks crushed. It's like he doesn't know what to say so he stands there looking like he's just taken a hammer to the chest and Jonathan, on the other hand, knows _exactly_ what to say. He always knows what to say and after all, he's planned this, too. 

"I'm sorry," he says, and maybe he is, because Dick _is_ nice. Perhaps he doesn't like him with any particular passion but he _is_ a good person and he doesn't necessarily want to hurt him. The three men coming up behind him, though... they _do_ want to hurt him. It's decidedly so.

He's fascinating to watch. In that second he's amazingly fast and his body moves in ways that Jonathan hadn't realised were possible. It's impressive, yes, and maybe he deserves to win but when he's done with them, when they're strewn over the ground, Jonathan's watching from behind his mask. He's made Bruce close his eyes so he won't see. It's over quickly. He leaves him there, lying by the kerb. There's no guilt. He doubts he'll ever see him again. 

***

He leaves with Bruce. He knows his illustrious employer's plan, figured it out months ago, and he has to say it's interesting; maybe he'd like to stay, he thinks, and see the city tear itself apart through fear, with his toxin - it's his research, after all. He knows the plan and he knows that no one's going to realise what's happened to him after because they'll assume he's dead – he was at Arkham, wasn't he? He must have been there when it happened. Bruce, they'll think he's escaped with all the others. It's the perfect cover and Metropolis awaits. There's a job with Lexcorp all lined up already. 

They drive away in the night's light rain, in the car he's taken from Ra's Al Ghul's strangely ineffective help; they're out of the Narrows, halfway to Sheal Bridge when it starts. Jonathan just smiles. The GCPD should have the antidote he's sent them... idly he wonders how many they'll actually manage to save. Ra's won't be pleased. Gotham won't be razed. 

"Shouldn't have tried to use me," he murmurs, and smiles, and squeezes Bruce's hand. 

And soon, they're gone. They leave Gotham behind. He takes Bruce with him.


End file.
